


Hollow Knight Drabbles

by spicedrobot



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Breeding, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hot Springs & Onsen, M/M, Master/Servant, Masturbation, Multi, Other, Public Sex, Sappy, Tentacles, Voyeurism, come find me there and request!!!, sheosmith is so softe..., they are soft, uhhhh i have no excuse for this besides prompts on tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-09-26 21:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Chapter One: Monomon offers her apprentice for an important task.Chapter Two: Monomon grants Quirrel the deepest of his desires.Chapter Three: Sheo and the Nailsmith spend some time together in a place entirelytoopublic.Chapter Four: Grimm tests the Pure Vessel's restraint.Written for prompts submitted to my tumblr!





	1. Hollow Knight/Quirrel, breeding

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just trying to get some HK energy out of me. Hoping to do some Monomon/Quirrel and Sheo/Nailsmith as well! :3c

It is strange to be summoned from Monomon’s quarters, stranger that the call hails from the White Palace itself, a place Quirrel had hardly tread once the Madam had taken him under her wing. The king’s sycophants murmur and twitter as he enters the highest spires, but he does his best to ignore them, instead admiring the high ceilings and carved stone, beautiful, intricate. 

A single attendant ushers him through one stone archway after another, narrower and darker, stairs leading to somewhere hidden behind an opulent alabaster pillar.

A secret. Ah, he should’ve known.

The Vessel awaits him, sitting straight and tall next to a plush bed. The only pieces of furniture in an austere room. For a purpose, then. Their purpose. 

The attendant leaves, and it is only the vessel and the apprentice. They stand, up and up and up, and Quirrel tips his head to keep their face (their mask) in view. Then he remembers himself, bows once. Such pomp is not expected from his master, and Quirrel forgets himself.

“Greetings. You have need of my skills?”

The Vessel draws closer, each step light with the faintest echo. They are silent. Immaculate. As desired. As hoped. Perfect, mindless, Quirrel had known such, but to witness firsthand—

The smooth touch of their hand against his chin startles him, strangely warm. Too real. Then it slides lower, down the segments of his carapace, and the bug shivers. Feather light. Gentle. His mind softens against that touch, his hand grasped, urged with the gentlest insistence further into the room, closer to the implication that makes his breath short and his blood run hot. 

* * *

Why had Monomon not warned him? Quirrel knows not what to expect, except that he has little choice, honor and horror in equal parts, but more so gentle remorse for the Vessel, who sets him like a boon onto the bed, nuzzles against the side of his neck, blooming an ache in his body he cannot recall ever existing before. Large, spindling hands, gentle touch along his stomach, stroking and feeling, exploring him. 

Quirrel knows what they aim for, knows his purpose, a duty, it must be, but he leans into each press, each searching hand. He reaches for the Vessel, even as they recoil, their head tilting with obvious confusion, curiosity. 

“I can help,” Quirrel murmurs, keeping the tremor out of his voice, out of his hand as he presses into the space between the Vessel’s legs and finds something entirely too large and eager against his palm. 

Quirrel looks, curiosity damned, grips it to feel its girth, not especially thick but _long_, and his face is bright with the thought, with the guttural sound the Vessel makes as he draws his hand along their cock, wettened and needy. 

He is not the Vessel’s plaything, not some dalliance. There is a purpose, there must be, the Vessel jerking into his touch, their huge form curled into him, against him, urging his own legs apart when the slick spills freely over his hand, slippery smooth and too warm. Had no one touched them before? Is this their first? No time to think, no time to ask, the hot, tumescent press against his own opening. Eager himself, wet from only the Vessel’s touch and their soft cries.

He groans as he’s breached, legs immediately clutching around the Vessel’s narrow body, not quite pain, but the bloom of pleasure—it’s so very hard to think, questions overridden by the slow, insistent press of the one atop him. Larger he liked, and embarrassment burns through him. Did Monomon know this and set him to this purpose? 

And then it is the eager press of a young soul pumping into him, hot and coltish and whiting out his mind. He clings and tries not to make a sound, but the Vessel nudges their head against his, softly keening each time they fully sheath themselves within him, and each time he releases his own choked gasp.

The Vessel contorts themself around him, pressing down and holding, shaking, whining, and Quirrel can feel each pulse, hot and thick, inside him, then it’s hard to feel anything besides his own pleasure ricocheting, shattering his mind.

His senses return in a minute or so, so hard to know, everything pleasure-lined and fuzzy. The Vessel already has their arms around him, hugged close to their abdomen. The smaller bug shakes free, shifts until the Vessel’s on their back, head tipped to look up at him, a silent question in their pose.

“I am not yet done with you, knight.”


	2. Monomon/Quirrel, tentacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monomon grants Quirrel the deepest of his desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are so fun to write! Need to write some round gay bugs next. :)c

The denizens of Monomon’s sect rarely eat or sleep. There is something otherworldly to the kingdom’s upper castes, something that cannot be explained beyond the will of its king.

For a commoner and new apprentice, the transition of needs into higher pursuits is a difficult one. The mind is a tricky thing, and Quirrel stubbornly battles the ghosts of his wants, clinging to the unnecessary and primordial even as he subsists without. 

Monomon knows this. So very clever, sharp as the finest nail in mind and empathy, sensing Quirrel’s desires much before he’s parsed them out himself.

“It’s spellcraft,” he had accused her once, so softly in tone it could not be considered such. Quirrel could never begrudge his Madam. 

“No, young one,” she had quipped gently. “You wear your emotions plainly, try as you may to hide them.”

It is perhaps how he finds himself hefted onto his scrying table a few hours before dawn; the only ones within the archives are the Madam and her disciple, the smaller already stammering and flushed from her looming presence. 

“Madam, I don’t understand—”

A thin, green tendril slides over his mouth, wet and surprisingly warm, and it takes his everything not to make a sound, his fingers tightening against the wooden surface, paper etchings scattered and crumpled beneath his body.

“Oh, my sweet one.” Her soft, harmless laughter sets his heart pounding all over again. “I do not forget the callings of youth and rebirth.”

She towers over him in all things, so many times his size, and he feels it more than he’s ever as she curls over him now, her mask so close to his, the sweetness of her words warming his mouth as a tendril catches beneath his chin.

“I will not have you suffer so. Let me grant what you desire.”

And still, his mind prickles with confusion, disbelief, as she tips her mask up, the plush curves of her lips descending, capturing, heat and the rich fragrance of flora perfumed in every breath. He doesn’t move, he can’t, or he’ll lose whatever he had of his secrets, of that longing that could not be given name or thought. Only the Madam has never cared for such things, draws it out of him as easily as a smile when she praised him and his work, when she laughed and smoothed over his shortcomings. Always lovely, strong, unstoppable—

Oh. _Oh_.

“M-monomon…” He groans against her lips, trying in vain to quell his heavy breath, his quiet, pathetic sounds when she twists around him. Closer than she’s ever been, vibrant and unbelievable like a dream. 

“Yes, sweet one,” she coos in return, just as breathless, tinged with her secret joviality. “It is what thou wished, beneath it all.”

Her eyes sparkle, luminescent and a wonder to behold, more beautiful than the songstress upon her gilded stage, than the Consort herself, overflowing and grand in all things. 

The sensation rushes over him, quick as lightning strikes the earth, just as charged, the trappings of honor and servitude stripped bare. She descends at the precise moment of his weakness, shedding his clothes, slotting her tendrils along his belly, between his legs. Quirrel, joyed and horrified, freezes at his own voice as he utters a string of pathetic murmurings.

Please. Anything, Monomon, I need you.

There is no laughter in her response, no quaint kindness. Instead, another shock, one of intensity. There is no dream intruder. No sacrifice. Her eyes shine, and he sees only his face reflected back at him.

“Anything.”

She takes him just so, an offering, freely and wholeheartedly given. He writhes and clings to her, rocks against her tendrils, bites his palm when the gentle curl of them catch his emerging cock, dripping and wanting. She kisses him and praises him, urges his hips into her grasp, finds his opening beneath, wet, trembling as she sets to wiggle into him, her eyes drawing down his body only to find his face again and again, drinking him in, admiring, savoring.

Quirrel can hardly stand it, to be so seen, to be exposed to one so dear. His eyes prickle, and when she kisses the edge of each the tears flow, though the shame is lessened by her tenderness. Always by it.

She does not coddle, commiserate. His Madam kisses him, works herself inside him, and he chokes back his own noises, how close he is, how achingly brought to the insane precipice which his servitude had stripped from him all those moons ago. 

“Release your sorrow, and I will take every last drop.”

Quirrel buries his face against her, the soft, supple catch of her body a balm as she double her efforts, pushing deep, gripping him like a glove, swallowing him whole and he whines and spills over her, mewling when the tendrils pumping inside him bring him to the edge and back, achingly sensitive but unwilling to let her go.

“Please, please—” he cries, trembling like the last leaf before winter’s grasp.

“Yes, sweet one. Always.”


	3. Sheo/Nailsmith, public sex, slight voyeurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheo and the Nailsmith spend some time together in a place entirely _too_ public.

Before. Before, the trip would’ve been too arduous for the Nailsmith. The ease of travel is just one of the countless blessings that the knights and their princess-protector had bestowed upon Hallownest after the infection’s defeat.

He’s old, older than most. The Nailsmith reclines against the heated stone and sighs, the exhale joining the steam rising around him. His carapace thanks him for the trip. Centuries spent hunched over his workman’s bench, hammering out failure after failure until—

Until the Knight, and he dips his head at the thought. One so small, so young, had saved them all. 

“Still here I see,” a voice says from behind him. 

The Nailsmith doesn’t look up, simply revels in the new warmth that settles at his side, hardly disturbing the water regardless of his size.

“I’ve come to enjoy relaxing very much.”

And where had he learned that? So late in life, taught by another, the same whose breath ruffles his beard as he leans into him.

The Nailsmith isn’t sure he’ll ever tire of this. A hand that never quite lost its callouses intertwines their fingers, a deep, rumbling voice that huffs softly as he kisses his cheek. Once. Twice. The Nailsmith smiles and tips his head towards his partner, joins their lips in a chaste pluck that turns much less so after a moment. 

How his heart races like a bug barely grown. They kiss, slow and deep, Sheo’s hand at his chest tightening as the Nailsmith nips his tongue and turns into him, pressing flush to his side. It is so much like a second life, to be with him. It makes him hungry, hungry like the way a well-forged blade had made him feel, always striving, drawn into endless, soulless pursuit.

The Nailsmith finds he enjoys this much more, breathy, deep grunts, touches to answer his own. More than cold ore and roaring fire. An answering life to pant and melt into his touch, and Sheo did it so beautifully. He loved how he could make his quiet one sing.

“Dirty old man,” Sheo groans, twisting against him, and the Nailsmith can _feel_ the affect he has on him, hot and heavy along his carapace, the answering thrill of his own joy and heat.

“It seems I’m not the only one.”

Another kiss, then Sheo dips his face, finds the Nailsmith’s throat at the edge of his beard. He’s sensitive there, had never known it until the painter had shown him one night, damn him, bless him. His teeth are blunt, powerful, and the bug shivers against it, against the swelling ache that it summons in an instant.

Breaths turn into moans and quiet sighs. Chests draw together, hands explore like they did during their first, tracing segments, scars. Though the waters conceal them, it doesn’t conceal what they’re doing, ripples slapping against the stone, joining their sounds. They drag against each other, hands cupping necks, faces, backs. Mouths leading, teasing kisses, stealing them, biting and gasping and swearing. 

The Nailsmith cannot decide how to have him. To bend him over the stone, to be mounted himself, to tease Sheo with his mouth until the larger bug quivers and begs for the slightest touch that would undo him. Instead, they rut into each other, unable to free themselves from the spell, from their hands clasping together just above the water’s surface.

It is Sheo that keens first, losing himself, and the Nailsmith grasps him properly at last, working his cock from base to end, hot like a forge even beneath the water.

“My love,” Sheo mumbles, once he has the capacity to do so. The Nailsmith grins, but his smugness is need-laced when he feels Sheo’s hand upon his cock. “Allow me.”

–

Lemm glares. Glares, because he cannot do much else. For all that the pale brats have done for him, his days are not more but a ruin. He just wanted a day to relax. The one day he had chosen to leave the store. 

He twists his towel in his hands, glancing over the boulder he had not so much hid behind as just stop before he heard the ridiculous old bugs and their teenage philandering. Huge and moaning and curled into each other as if they are the only ones in Hallownest. Kissing and feeling each other up under the water.

Above the water. Oh, they are bigger than he thought. Much bigger. Everywhere. Much too big. They would dwarf him. Not to mention brutish, both ancient and strong—

Lemm shakes his head viciously. 

_Leave. Leave you fool. Idiot._ But it is useless.

The Relic Seeker has always loved old things, after all. 


	4. Grimm solo, PV watches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trope is many years too early, but Grimm will not let the journey be for naught.

The ancient pyre is lit, but the time is wrong. The troupe manifests deep below the surface, surrounded by a vibrant, bustling city, glittering as bright as the stars unseen. The troupe master fears for a moment the heart’s anger, the scent of decay is in its infancy; for years will these creatures thrive, unfettered by the golden whispers that will unravel everything they hold dear. Yet, the heart does not speak. Complacent, for a time, freshly gorged as it is on the crimson remnants of the last fallen land.

A period of peace, but more importantly, time to investigate, to meet the starring actors that would fuel the end of this powerful, sprawling kingdom. 

His kin are outsiders, but well spoken and spellbinding, their spectacle a hit, whispered and dreamed about amongst the population. It is not long before they receive summons from the king himself, whose stature is much smaller than the stories claimed. Yet, there is an ancient, undeniable gravitas to him, enough that the eyes of the heart peer upon him curiously from its place within nightmare. 

That one, it whispers, screams, echoes, and Grimm bows to the fragile, powerful king who was the rise of his kingdom and will also be its fall. He kneels and kisses his lady’s hand, much larger and lovelier than her king. She smiles, her eyes sparkling like the cityscape. Then there is a hush, and she gestures with a single graceful motion of her heavily robed arm.

The heart is all seeing, all knowing, all powerful, but when they approach, not quite as tall as their mother but just as lovely, exuding nothing but a vacant stare, Grimm cannot look away. How wonderful! How interesting! A vessel, pure and resplendent. Unfeeling, unspeaking, unthinking.

Yet, how they track their king’s movements, the faintest twitch of their head, unconscious perhaps, of their body’s own betrayal. How it makes his own heart tremble, if he even had such a thing. He bows to this great figure, eyes barely able to leave them for a single moment.

There will be a fall, and they would be one of the actors. What harm could come, if Grimm tested such a vessel’s restraint? If they could dream, surely his actions would not matter one way or another. 

A true delight, when Grimm tests them. Their dream is vaguely empty, so very proper, but Grimm will not let it be so. He breathes into it, feels its edges shake and release, blacken and redden, nightmares summoned. Even here, the vessel is resplendent, armored, protected. No matter, Grimm conjures a little scenario of his own. Draped upon the lavish satin sheets of a great bed, framed by gauze and pillows, he splays, naked and unadorned. A scent lingers, deep and spiced, sensual, candles flickering at the room’s perimeter, casting him in coalescing light and shadow. He slips his hands down his body, segment by segment, shivering with anticipation. The vessel materializes before him, naked but for a simple gray shawl, somehow fitting and not, familiar but foreign. 

They linger like a ghost, watching him slip a hand between his legs while he clutches his throat, tongue slipping past the razor edges of his teeth. The heart is full, and so is he, vibrant and alive, glut on the freshness of this form, and the pleasure shivers through him, makes him grow. He is old, endless, and this pure, ancient one watches as he touches his emerging cock, red and tapered, glistening in the candlelight.

He speaks in the way of dreams, half-phrases, words to delight, to torment, to enthrall. The vessel’s stillness is something to behold. No one had ever remained so passive, but Grimm does not mistake it for lack of interest. No movement, because they are afraid of what it could mean, of what they could do, of what they could be allowed to do.

It matters little to Grimm, what their decision is. Only that there is torment, insecurity, desire, rising within them where none should bloom. He tosses his head back, hisses and spreads his thighs, strokes his cock, base to tip, slow, tantalizing presses punctuated by throaty gasps. The center of attention, the star of the show, the leader in the dance, all things he adored. In this moment, he is the only thing that matters, alive and heated in his own hands, enthralling the audience as he has done countless times before. Only no audience has ever been so enrapturing in return, even as they stand and watch, hands at their sides, motionless.

They cannot look away, and Grimm does not let them. How easy it is to lose himself beneath that gaze, flame and blood within his carapace, eyes like the very fire of his life force as he spills over his fist, keening and hissing like a base creature. And still he cannot shake this addictive feeling, dips his fingers into himself, eased by his own spent seed. How many times can he make himself come, fueled by the ever strengthening gaze of this empty one? Of the vessel who cranes closer minutely, near imperceptibly, as Grimm presses his fingers ever deeper, staining the sheets beneath his thighs with his want. The heart swells within his mind as his fingers quicken, tongue balanced between his fangs, focused and not, mindless and not, near his end and not, burning, relishing.

Oh, the fun he will have, performing for this one.


End file.
